Minerva McGonagall and the Business of Ferrets
by the real snape
Summary: The kitchen burglaries by the ScAvengers seemed innocent at first; a mere teenage prank. But then Severus and I realised they might have a far more sinister meaning. The fourth installment in the Minerva McGonagall, Spinster Detective series.
1. Chapter 1

"I hope you won't be too disappointed by the meagre entertainments of La Caunette, after this wild swirl of society events," said Severus as we withdrew to the sitting area. We had just finished dinner – a very good one, for Severus is an accomplished cook who knows how to make the most of the produce of the French countryside.

I had arrived late that afternoon for my annual summer holiday visit. I had unpacked and refreshed myself while Severus put the final touches to the meal, and we had spent a leisurely few hours eating and chatting. Among other things I had told him I had attended a birthday party for Elphias Doge and a lunch with the Weasley family. Hardly a _swirl_ of society events, but to Severus, who still relishes the total absence of any social life, it might seem so.

"I love staying in La Caunette, and you know it," I said. "I'm not a social butterfly who needs daily 'entertainments'. But I admit the Weasley lunch was lovely, even though Sybill was present."

"Sybill? At a Weasley family gathering?" asked Severus with understandable surprise. I had been surprised to see her there myself.

"Sybill. Annoying as ever. Fortunately there were enough people present to dilute her ramblings somewhat. And it made me enjoy her retirement all the more. Like a cold," I said.

"Like a cold? I don't understand."

"Well, you know what it's like: only when you have a cold do you fully appreciate the pleasure of breathing normally through your nose. You don't appreciate that at all when you're well. It's the same with Sybill. When she was around, she was most annoying. Even though in the last few years she taught so few classes that she was hardly a professional bother any more, the mere sight of her still set my teeth on edge. This meeting made me feel the full bliss of her retirement. And other than that it was a lovely party."

"Still, you must tell me all about Annoying Sybill," grinned Severus. "I'll get us both a nightcap."

"Severus!" I said, sternly. "Are you turning into a gossip?"

"Perish the thought," he said, pouring two glasses of Calvados. "I'm merely turning into the kind of good friend who will let you talk freely of a problem. So that you can get it off your chest and feel the better for it. As your host, I should provide a spiritual digestive just as much as an alcoholic one." And he put my glass on a side table with one of his elegant little bows. Severus Snape, a Slytherin and a gentleman.

"Very well, then," I said. "I'll tell you the whole business. Don't blame me if you get nightmares."

And that, with the benefit of hindsight, was the starting point of **The Business of Ferrets**.

0+0+0+0+0

Before I launch into Sybill's narrative, I must explain about the Weasley's holiday arrangements. They have everything to do with this case.

For years, with the children growing up and the school fees and everything, Molly and Arthur didn't have any holiday arrangements to speak of. Except for that one occasion when they all went to Egypt after winning a prize in the lottery. Many people thought it foolish of them to spend so much on a vacation when they were perpetually stretched for money. But all the young Weasleys still speak of that glorious time, and I think the memory their parents gave them was worth more than new schoolbooks and expensive clothes.

But now that all the children have left home, things are much easier for Molly and Arthur. And once again they have managed to come up with the very thing that will create wonderful memories for their little tribe. They have bought an old farmhouse in Wiltshire near Stonehenge.

The whole family helped with the restoration, and every summer Arthur and Molly go down for a month. All their children visit them, some for just a few days, others for longer. Occasionally grandchildren stay while their parents go off on a few days together. And there is usually one week when everyone is present. The whole scheme works wonderfully well.

The lunch to which I was invited was one in the week where everyone was present. Molly had set up two large tables in the garden, one for us older people, and one for the youngsters. It was a very informal affair, with gingham table clothes and cheerful blue Cornishware. Molly served large plates of cold ham and cold chicken, salads, bread rolls, and pitchers of cider, ale, and lemonade. It was just the sort of thing they will remember later. Granny's summer lunches.

The only thing I would personally consider a downside of that idyllic spot, is that Sybill has bought a small property that is less than a ten minutes' walk away – my little old-lady's bolt-hole, as she coyly refers to it, expecting her listeners to object to the 'old' part. It was the attraction of Stonehenge that drew her to the area, of course.

But Molly assured me Sybill was a very pleasant neighbour. The young girls especially were very taken with her, and they loved the small tea parties to which Sybill occasionally invited them. I could readily believe it – at Hogwarts, too, there were always several girls who had crushes on Sybill. They admired her prophecies, her highly unusual classroom, and her … well, I suppose one could call it 'artistic looks'.  
On more than one occasion I have had to tell a girl that imitation is not always the sincerest form of flattery.

So Sybill, too, was invited to the family gathering. And for the first half hour after her arrival, she managed to make herself the centre of attention. To give her her due, she did have a story to tell.

It seemed that her geriatric bolt-hole had been burgled. Sybill had been off on a walk in the countryside, or, as she put it, "a spiritual path of meditation and contemplation which one so needs to restore the tranquillity of the Inner Eye".

Upon her return, the mere physical eye had not noticed anything amiss, until she stepped into her kitchen to make tea. There she saw that her freshly-baked shortbread, which she'd left cooling on a rack, had gone missing. Someone had taken more than half of it – but not all, funnily enough.

At first Sybill thought one of the Weasley children had been very naughty. A not entirely inconceivable idea.

But then she found that something else was missing, too. It was a _highly spiritual object_ as Sybill called it, a framed drawing she had made herself.

Sybill's doodle seemed to have been a Mandala. No surprise there. She had used the colours of all four elements, "to unite the powers of Earth, Wind, Fire, and Water in a magical allegiance of protection." And the need for this so-called magical allegiance was explained as well. Not that some good protective wards wouldn't have worked better.

Sybill had added the wordings of her "two strongest, most important predictions. Folded into the design of the Mandala, protected by its sacred form, unreadable to the uninitiated."

Well, hardly unreadable. Young Rose told me later that "Auntie Sybill really, really is a Seer, never mind what Mummy says, because she _did_ predict that Uncle Harry was the Chosen One, and it was all in the Mandala that has been stolen. And another prediction, too. About a Servant and a Master." But Rose had not managed to find out the exact wording of that one. "Everyone knows the prediction about Uncle Harry, of course. So I really, really wanted to read the other one, and I would have cracked it, if only it weren't gone."

She would, too. A very clever little girl. She may not see eye to eye with Hermione where Sybill's predictions are concerned, but she is very much a chip of the old block. It will be a pleasure to have her at Hogwarts in a few years' time.

Anyhow, the Mandala and the shortbread had both gone. And the truly interesting part was that the thieves had signed their crime. On the wire rack Sybill had found a little scrap of parchment with the inscription _The ScAvengers were here!_.

"And then Sybill kept prattling about the ScAvengers, and how the Dark Arts must be involved, for they only attack the Great Heroes of the Resistance, of which she is one. Or so she claims. But Harry soon put a stop to that, thank heavens," I told Severus, and took another sip of my Calva.

"The scavengers? Who are they, and why does it involve the Dark Arts? And _Potter_?" asked Severus.

I should have realized that he knew nothing about the ScAvengers. He doesn't read the _Daily Prophet_, other than the articles I send him occasionally.

"The ScAvengers," I corrected, and explained how they write their name. "They're this year's Summer Craze. It isn't important – some pranksters, I dare say. But the _Prophet_ makes much of it.

"So far there have been three burglaries, and the pattern is always the same. They steal food and what one might call a _souvenir_.

"The first victim was Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron. One morning he found that half a fruitcake was missing – a left-over from Elphias's birthday bash, actually. There was this same note that the ScAvengers had been there. He didn't think much of it – a childish prank, he assumed. But then he noticed that a picture was taken as well. It was a framed picture of Harry, taken when Ron and he gave a party at the Leaky to celebrate passing the Auror Entrance Exam.

"Tom was proud of that picture. You know how he tells everyone that Harry first entered the Wizarding World through his pub?"

"I certainly know. _Young Harry Potter Claimed His Inheritance Right Here In My Pub._ If I've heard it once, I've heard it a thousand times," said Severus. "Everyone who goes to the Leaky was subjected to it at some point. And now you're telling me his customers couldn't have a quiet pint without Potter glaring at them? If these ScAvengers put an end to that nonsense, I like them already."

"Quite," I said. Where Harry is concerned, Severus has a chip on his shoulder the size of a house, and there's no point in arguing.

"The second case was more serious. Food-wise it was just the better part of a batch of flapjacks, but the burglary was at the Weasleys' house, and their clock was stolen. You remember the clock? The one with the family names on it that told Molly and Arthur where everyone was? Now, that clock was valuable.

"And Sybill is the third one. But they seem back to taking just food and a souvenir."

"I see," said Severus. "And your idea is it's a series of pranks? Perhaps a group of young wizards who dare each other?"

"Exactly," I said. "I think it's some sort of secret society – a teenage one, you know. They call themselves the ScAvengers, and new members have to steal food for the group, as well as a souvenir. To prove that they didn't just buy the food, but actually broke in somewhere."

"And now they do realize the clock's value, but they can't return it, or it would land them in a pretty pickle," said Severus, quick on the uptake as ever. "You should investigate, you know. _The Case of the Cake Criminals_. Only, that would make a second alliteration with C's. _The Case of the Ferocious Food Frauds_, perhaps?"

I glared at him. I have solved only one case that has a – much regretted – alliteration in the title, and Severus knows perfectly well why I couldn't call it _The Case of the Red Herring_. He disagrees, of course, and thinks it would have done Lucius all the good in the world. Ever since I told him the tale, he gleefully refers to his old ally as _Kipper Malfoy_.

"If they had continued with valuable objects like the clock, I would expect Mundungus to be behind it. And you know you wouldn't enjoy another detective story where Mundungus has dunnit.

"But this group of youngsters? They are very wrong, of course. But I can see how it happened. What they are doing here is just one step up from a kitchen raid at Hogwarts in their eyes. I have wondered, briefly, whether we shouldn't be sterner on those. Because in a way they are right: it _is_ just one small step up. Technically, a kitchen raid is theft, too.

"On second thoughts, however, I do still think a kitchen raid is the kind of prank most of us have played – it's harmless fun, it's a bonding activity. Remember that time we went down for a snack and heard those Hufflepuffs?"

"I certainly do," said Severus. "And I still think the way you Transfigured and slid under the cupboard, in one smooth move, is one of the neatest actions I've ever seen. My leap into that storage room was much more undignified."

"But you could stand up straight," I said morosely. That kitchen floor had been cold, the space under the cupboard too low for comfort, and Pomona's little colony of badgers had selected and prepared their food at leisure. They could afford to: I heard some excellent, whispered protective wards, and a very good muffled _Silencio_. Never underestimate badgers. They're not slow; they're well-prepared and methodical.

"But I see your point about the pranksters," Severus said. "They do feel it's just a small step up. They truly don't realize the enormous invasion of privacy that is a burglary. And the clock was clearly a mistake. Someone wanted to do something very impressive, and now they don't know how to solve it."

"If I find out that a group of Hogwarts students is behind it," I said, "the difference between a kitchen raid and burglary will be made perfectly clear. But I'm not going to spend my precious holiday chasing them.

"Of course, you might take up the case yourself, you know. You would be good at detecting. And you could always ask me for advice."

Now it was Severus's turn to glare. "I dare say I might manage on my own," he said. "I could do a halfway decent Sherlock Holmes, I think. And you'd make a lovely Watsonette."

Severus may be more fortunate in his looks, but he is every bit as conceited as Hercule Poirot, and that's the fictional detective he should emulate. He could pull off the French, too. It's a shame no-one in their right mind will mistake him for a _hairdresser_.

In the end we spent a pleasurable few minutes listing possible other suspects. Severus suggested Rita Skeeter – if the story won't come to the reporter, the reporter must make the story. I suggested Augusta Longbottom – a glutton, and she may well think that Neville has lived in Harry's shadow for long enough and that removing Harry's portrait from public places would change this. These are both delusional notions, but, as her long-suffering former prefect knows, common sense is not Augusta's strongest point. And she always was a complete madcap.

We had a good laugh over it before we retired.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning Severus was quiet and thoughtful. More so than usual. I was about to ask him whether there was anything bothering him, but he must have read my face before I could utter the words, for he at once made an effort to be more genial.

Severus and I have known each other for long enough to bear with the other's moods, so when he asked me about my plans for the day I told him I would take a stroll in the village, and then perhaps spend some time in the garden with a book. That way he could offer to join me or remain alone, as he wished.

After all, we had spoken extensively of the Wizarding world the night before. While Severus's exile was his own choice, and mostly to his liking, it would be quite understandable that all these stories of people he used to know would turn him silent and pensive. Not so much because he missed anyone, but because there was so little to miss. When had Severus ever been a part of friendly, informal gatherings?

Perhaps the only time he truly felt part of a group of friends was during those few years when, as a very young man, he had embraced Voldemort's ideas wholeheartedly. I remember that once, at a Grimmauld Place meeting, Sirius made a scathing remark about his brother Regulus, and Severus nearly bit his head off. Albus calmed them down, as always. The reason I have remembered this particular quarrel was the look in Severus's eyes when he said, gruffly, by way of explanation, "Reg and I were friends, once."

If Severus wanted some privacy that morning, he should have it. I had a lovely little stroll in the village, and when I returned I wrote a thank-you note to Molly Weasley. I had left for France the day after her luncheon party, and I hadn't had time yet. Very remiss of me, of course, and I felt bad about my neglect.

I asked Severus whether it would bother him to have his owl carry the letter. Severus had bought Socrates when we had resumed our friendship, in order to correspond with me. He said it wouldn't be a problem at all, since the owl could hardly give information on its owner and his whereabouts.

So I sent off the letter, we had a light lunch, and Severus joined me with a book of his own. I could see that he felt more cheerful than that morning, and by the time we had a pre-dinner drink he was quite his old self.

The next day was uneventful but very pleasant. But on the third morning of my stay with Severus, his owl returned with a letter that changed the entire course of my holiday.

0+0+0+0

"Pleasant news?" asked Severus as I perused Molly's note over breakfast.

"They're all very well," I said. "It seems that Ginny and Bill have left with their families, and Molly feels quite bereaved with only Charlie and his partner and Percy and Ron with their offspring to look after."

We threw each other an understanding look. _Only_ Charlie, Paul, and Percy's and Ron's tribes. Sweet Merlin.

There was some trivial information on the children – how Bill and Fleur would go to France to visit Fleur's parents, and Harry and Ginny would take Teddy Lupin along on their family trip on a long boat. Harry liked doing Muggle things during his holidays. And he thought his children should learn to appreciate the Muggles and their world, too, but he was clever enough to turn these lessons into adventures rather than sermons.

The whole group had set off for Diagon Alley, so that the women could get most of the Hogwarts shopping done before the August rush. Sensible of them, I thought.

Naturally, these domestic details wouldn't interest Severus. But the last part of the letter made me exclaim.

"The ScAvengers have been busy again," I told him. "This time it's Florean Fortescue's."

"Food-wise one can't fault their taste," he said. "What did they take this time? One of those ghastly Italian harbour paintings – if Florean still has those?"

I confirmed the presence of the paintings. Of all of them, for that was not what the thieves had taken. "You know Florean always had a picture of his place, with the awning down and a full terrace?"

Severus said he remembered and wondered why anyone who had made the choice to go to Florean's would need a reminder on the wall that they were, indeed, at Florean's.

I quite agreed with him. "But these days," I told him, "the picture serves another purpose: it shows that Harry Potter is an old customer."

"Merlin forbid!" exclaimed Severus. "Is all of the Wizarding world infested with Potter's image? What's Florean's claim to fame?"

"Harry stayed a few days in Diagon Alley one August. At the start of the Lupin Year, if I remember correctly. During those days he spent quite a lot of time at Florean's. He _was_ only fourteen, and Florean fed him an unlimited supply of sundaes. And helped him with his homework, or so he claims. It's quite possible, too. Florean had an 'Outstanding' for Magical History. One of the very few students who stayed awake often enough to achieve such results. And Harry could use all the help he could get with that subject."

"With most subjects," said Severus. "But that's beside the point."

It was. Trust Severus to make the remark, regardless. He really can be annoying sometimes. "Do you want to hear the rest of the details?" I asked pointedly. He nodded.

"The ScAvengers have left their usual note. The picture is gone, frame and all. And they seem to have had quite a lot of ice cream. They probably used the cardboard goblets for take-away customers. It seems they also used one of his ice scoops to fill the goblets, and they left it on the draining board, well-rinsed."

"This news," said Severus, "is ominous." And he gave his croissant the kind of glare that, once upon a time, would have wilted an entire classroom.

Then he looked up and said, "Minerva …" He stared at his croissant again. I waited.

"Minerva," he continued, "I think there _is_ a case to investigate here. A more serious one than your previous successes, I'm afraid. I've been thinking about it for some time now. May I present the facts, as I see them?"

I nodded and poured us both a fresh cup of coffee. I must admit that I was very curious. Severus had told me once that he would make a better side-kick than Kipper Malfoy, and that perhaps one day we would investigate a case together. Was he trying to turn this matter into more than it actually was? Yet Severus wouldn't use the word _serious_ lightly where crime was involved.

"The way I see it," Severus began, "we now have four ScAvenger burglaries. In all four cases, food was taken, and in all four cases, it was cakes or sweets. Not proper mealtime food, I mean. But the kind of snacks that fit in very well with the notion of a childish prank. So does the ScAvenger note, and it explains why they call themselves the _scavengers_: it's what they do. They scavenge.

"There is, however, another explanation that might be possible. The thieves may steal food because they need it – because they can't buy it."

"But why didn't they take it all, then?" I asked. "They left some of the shortbread. And they didn't take all the food in the Leaky Cauldron either. If they are that desperate, surely they would take all and save some to eat later?"

"Quite," said Severus. "That is odd, and it's a problem we'll have to discuss further. But here's the second part. In three out of four cases, the stolen object has a reference to Potter. And remember that the ScAvengers very much stress the 'avenger' part of their name, too.

"Now, what kind of people could you think of who might have difficulties buying food, and who might want to avenge something by removing Potter artefacts from display?"

I stared at Severus in dismay.

"Oh, sweet Merlin, no," I finally said. It was clear what he meant. Death-Eaters.

"And the stealing of food would mean they are still on the Ministry's Wanted list and can't buy from shops for that reason," I said.

"That's what I thought," said Severus. "They could go to Muggle shops, of course. But …"

"Most of them are quite unfamiliar with the Muggle world," I finished his sentence. We often knew what the other one was thinking.

Often.

But not always.

For his next remark rendered me speechless for longer than I have ever been.

"Minerva," Severus said, "you may think I'm crazy. Maybe I am. But … believe me, I've really given this much thought and … are you absolutely certain that Peter Pettigrew is dead?"


	3. Chapter 3

"Pettigrew? Peter Pettigrew? You think _Peter Pettigrew_ is behind this?" I said finally. It seemed outrageous – impossible. "But … he died at Malfoy Manor. Harry saw it. And Ron. And others, probably."

"On the first occasion of his death, a whole crowd of wizards and Muggles saw it," said Severus. "Did Potter tell you the way he died?"

"No," I said. "I read he was dead – that Harry had seen it. It was on the Death Lists. You know Shacklebolt ordered the compilation of those lists. To make sure who was dead and who was missing. To establish which Death Eaters might still be alive and hiding. Pettigrew's name was on the list – witnesses of his death were Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. But surely … he died at Malfoy Manor. Weren't you there? There must have been others – Death Eaters … And even if … surely he wouldn't show up _now_ to steal cakes and Potter artefacts?"

"I was knocked sideways by the thought myself," said Severus. "You noticed – the first morning you were here. I didn't want to talk about it then. I thought it was insane – the result of a nightmare, induced by too much food and talk of the Wizarding world. Remember you said not to blame you if your story gave me nightmares? I didn't mean to. I thought it was silly, and I was annoyed at how the silliness affected me.

"But if there is even the smallest possibility that I'm right … "

"What makes you think he might be alive?" I asked. The idea seemed preposterous.

"I'll give you my reasoning in a moment," said Severus. "But if I am right, do you agree that we need to investigate the matter?"

"Yes," I said, without hesitation. "If he's alive, there is a case – a serious one. But before we start hexing from the hip, we had better take a good look at the situation."

"Of course," said Severus, and I could see he was relieved I didn't dismiss his ideas outright. As if I would ever dismiss Severus Snape's opinions on crime or the Dark Arts.

"I know I'm a good spy," Severus continued. "But – this may surprise you – I've never set up an independent investigation of my own. I've always worked on specific missions. And there was never much doubt who did it, in those days. You have done detective work. Where do we start?"

"We establish the facts, to see whether there is a case in the first place" I said. "Do you have a notebook we can use?"

Severus fetched a Muggle notebook and a ballpoint. "Will this do?" he asked.

I nodded, opened the book, wrote _The ScAvengers_ at the top of the first page, and underlined the words. Severus smiled. "Very methodical," he said.

"And now, facts," I said. "The first thing we must establish is whether there is a chance that Pettigrew is still alive. Do you realize this is my second case where the corpse may spring to life in the early chapters?"

We briefly smiled at each other. Not because we didn't think the situation serious enough – it's just that after so many years in the Order together we had our own way of working. _Fighting the Dark Arts with Dark Humour_ Albus had once called it.

"That will be a wonderful addition to your entry in _Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century_," said Severus. "In addition to her ground-breaking work in Transfiguration and her Headship of Hogwarts, Professor Minerva McGonagall changed the British Detective Novel forever. " He grinned.

"Is there a special name for your sort of cases?" he asked. "It's always better to be specific, as we've told our students endlessly. I know the 'hard-boiled' and the 'thriller' but is there a word for what you do? Or is this Agatha Christie of yours a stand-alone?"

"She's not, and it's called a _cosy mystery_," I said. Reluctantly, for I knew Severus would have a field day with that one. And sure enough, a delighted grin spread over his face.

"A _cosy_ mystery? How utterly enchanting. I'm honoured to be the side-kick in a _cosy mystery_. I'll endeavour to give satisfaction. "

"We'll give it a try," I said. "Whatever doubts I may have about your capacity for cosiness, I will set them aside. I trust you'll take to your new part with panache. How about a fresh pot of coffee to start with?"

Severus nodded and fetched the coffee. And a plate of delectable _madeleines_. "See?" he said. "I can out-cosy Kipper Malfoy any day."

And, strengthened by coffee and madeleines, we set to work in earnest. _The Death of Peter Pettigrew – Severus Snape's testimony_ I wrote.

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_The Death of Peter Pettigrew – Severus Snape's testimony_

_I went to Malfoy Manor in the early hours of 28th March, 1998. I had received an urgent summons from Voldemort. Upon my arrival, I learned that this had to do with the capture and subsequent escape of Potter and various others. Voldemort wanted me to take certain measures regarding valuable objects at Hogwarts – that part of our discussion is not relevant for this case._

_Before we started our conversation – held in private at Voldemort's insistence – he informed me that Pettigrew had died. I will render the conversation as precisely as possible._

_Voldemort said, "You will be interested to hear that your faithful servant is no more."_

_"Pettigrew is dead?" I asked. "How did that happen, My Lord?"_

_[Voldemort had ordered Pettigrew to act as my servant at one point – hence his use of that word. I wanted to find out whether Potter had killed him after all. Potter had once, rather grandly, spared Pettigrew's life. I was curious to know his present state of mind –had he been involved in Pettigrew's death?]_

_It was Bellatrix Lestrange who answered. "The unworthy rat betrayed Our Master!" she screamed. "He helped Potter! So he died a traitor's death. The silver hand Our Master so graciously gave him has strangled him. The Master's Hand punished the traitor!"_

_I looked at Voldemort, and he nodded. "Pettigrew was foolish," he said. "And unworthy. Unlike you, my dear Severus."_

_He then gave me a sign to follow him, and we had our further discussion. Pettigrew's death was spoken of no more, but I learned later that Potter and Weasley were present when it happened. They escaped from the dungeon and rescued Hermione Granger, who had been tortured upstairs._

_It is important to note that at the time of Pettigrew's alleged death, Potter and Weasley were greatly distressed by Miss Granger's screams. Their only interest was to save her._

_This leads to the following facts:_  
_Pettigrew died_

_by his own hand._

_The two witnesses saw him fall down. His face was purple, his eyes protruded, and he looked like someone who was strangled. The witnesses reported this to Kingsley Shacklebolt._

_It is not certain that Weasley and Potter ever actually witnessed a strangulation before or are familiar with the death struggle of a strangled person._

_For some time after that – reports vary from several minutes to nearly half an hour – no-one entered the cellar as a fight was going on upstairs, during which Potter and company managed to escape. Then Greyback was sent down to check on the other prisoners. He reported that they were gone as well and that Pettigrew was dead. Voldemort told him to dispose of the body._

_This means there was some time in which Pettigrew could Transfigure an object to look like his dead body – a dead rat or mouse, brought for the purpose, suggests itself– and could disappear in his Animagus form._


	4. Chapter 4

I finished my notes and looked at Severus. "But he died by Voldemort's hand," I said. "Voldemort put a spell on Pettigrew's hand – are you saying his spell didn't work properly?" It seemed unlikely. Voldemort, despicable though he was, was a very powerful wizard. I don't think it would be impossible to break a spell he had cast, but it would take time. A man who is being strangled does not have time. Unless …

"Was the existence of this spell known to others?" I asked. "Did Pettigrew know?"

"We didn't," said Severus. "None of us knew, and everyone was impressed. It is a very difficult form of Dark Magic. I still remember the look on Narcissa's face. The way she looked at Draco – she was terrified that he might be under some sort of spell, too. But I'm certain Pettigrew knew."

"Do you know that for a fact?" I asked him. During my previous cases, I've learned that people often tell you something is a fact when it actually is only hearsay or surmise. Rosmerta, for instance, once described as a fact something she was told by Mundungus Fletcher. One can't get more unreliable than that.

"It's not a fact, no. But it makes sense," said Severus. "Put yourself in Voldemort's shoes. You never really trust anyone. To you, people are just instruments. In Pettigrew you have an instrument that is useful, for he is a very capable wizard. But you know he has betrayed people before. So you put a spell on his hand.

"And the reason you tell him about this spell is that he'll be useful for longer when he knows. If he doesn't know, he may decide to betray you and then he dies. This stops the betrayal – good – but the downside is, you now have a dead servant. If you tell him in advance, it will not just stop him from betraying you, it will stop him from even thinking about it. He will remain useful for much longer."

It was a reasoning that chilled me to the core. Not because of the callousness and the complete disregard for human life. Not even because it was so clearly a psychopath's view, a view that objectifies people.

What shocked me was the ease with which Severus put himself in Voldemort's shoes. Everyone knows that the point of a spy is to gather information, and that he must work with despicable people to do so. But this was the first time I fully realised that Severus had not just _worked_ for Voldemort – he had spent years getting under his skin, seeing the world through his eyes, living in that distorted mind. If I had had to do that, would I ever feel clean again? Or would I always feel tainted by the psychopath's view? It is an experience that sets one apart from other people. No wonder Severus craved the loneliness of La Caunette.

Severus saw how shocked I was, but he attributed it merely to the Pettigrew story. For him, getting under Voldemort's skin was really just part of the job. "You agree with me, then?" he asked. "That Pettigrew was capable enough to work out a counter-spell? That's the one part that kept me wondering. He was good, I know that. But was he good enough? You had him as a student; what do you think?"

I nodded. Pettigrew had been a very good student. Not the kind that has flashes of brilliant insight, but he had a very logical mind and was good at working things out. And he thought before he acted. Give him a year and he could work out a way to counter the spell and test it without Voldemort realising what was going on.

All this, of course, meant that Severus might well be right about Pettigrew being alive. Everything fitted. I remembered the case of Mrs Norris's attacker – there everything fitted with Lucius being guilty, except for that one, very important part: motive. Unfortunately, in Pettigrew's case, even the lack of a motive fitted.

"You're right, it fits. The death was a high-risk performance that demanded a great deal of determination," I said. "The determination to keep strangling oneself – against the urge to draw breath. But we know Pettigrew has determination. It's how he staged his death the first time. And living as a rat for a decade demanded determination, as well.

"And somehow the lack of a motive fits, too. For ten years no-one thought Pettigrew could possibly betray Potter. No-one could think of a reason. Now we know he was Voldemort's man. And he seems to have been Voldemort's man with the same dedication he once gave his Hogwarts friends. He betrayed them. Did he betray Voldemort in the end?"

"And he did lie low for over a decade before," Severus nodded. "It all does fit in. We may still be wrong – I may still be wrong. But it's possible."

I thought for a moment. "What I suggest," I finally said, "is that we take a break here. Go someplace. So that we can both have a good think on whether the burglaries fit in as well. Then we can compare notes. That way we don't influence each other. If we both reach the same conclusions … well, we'll see what to do next, then."

Severus agreed with the plan at once. I left the choice of our destination to him, since he knew the region very well. And he knows me. Whenever we go on an outing, Severus finds not just the sort of place I like visiting, but one that suits my mood exactly.

He didn't disappoint me this time, either. He took us to an old abbey – the Abbaye de Fontfroide– and it was the perfect spot, peaceful and quiet. We were practically the only visitors, and the soothing lines of the Cistercian architecture that I love so much worked their usual magic. We sat on a bench in the cloister for at least an hour, each working out our own thoughts.

There are a great many dear friends in my life that I can talk with and laugh with – and sometimes even cry with – but Severus is the one with whom I can be quiet for hours. I am still very glad I solved the Case of the Living Portrait.

In the end we Apparated back to La Caunette, with a stop at a local supermarket to pick up a ready-cooked meal. Neither Severus nor I felt inclined to cook.

While the meal took care of itself, I fetched us both a drink, and then we sat down on the little terrace. We lifted our glasses to each other.

"Your turn," said Severus.  
"I've gone over the things you've said," I started, "and I'm afraid I haven't found any facts that belie the theory that Pettigrew is alive. So far, everything fits.

"Then I've gone over the four ScAvenger burglaries. To see how they fit in. There's one thing that does strike me as odd – we've spoken about it before. The fact that not all the food is taken, and that it's only snacks. The nature of the food still points towards teenage pranksters for me.

"Mind, I can understand the need for prepared food – that makes sense. Pettigrew may not live in a place with cooking facilities. And in the case of Florean's, he might not have found anything other than ice-cream. But surely the Leaky and Sybill's and Molly's houses had other food he could have taken? Does he have a particularly sweet tooth?"

"I don't really know," Severus replied. "Voldemort assigned him to me as my servant. I knew that wasn't the real reason, but I also knew both Pettigrew and I were supposed to take our lead from Voldemort and keep up appearances. So I told Pettigrew what food he had to buy and prepare, and he did. His taste didn't matter."

"I see," I said. "We must keep looking for clues in this direction, then. So far it's a piece that doesn't quite fit. It may be unimportant – but perhaps it's not.

"The other thing that seems odd is the clock. It's a Weasley family clock. True, Harry Potter is part of the Weasley family now, but the clock is about Molly, Arthur and their children. And it's not a Potter artefact on public display. Come to think of it, the mandala wasn't on _public_ display, either. But it definitely was a Potter artefact. "

"You're right, that's odd," said Severus. "Perhaps I am wrong after all." He sounded relieved. Noticing my mild surprise – his comments after the Cat Show case had led me to believe he actually had been a bit jealous that it was Lucius, not him, who had been my side-kick – he smiled somewhat wistfully.

"I may have joked at the notion of 'cosy' mysteries, but I would have enjoyed going over the details of a case like Kipper Malfoy's. Serving as a sparring partner and co-sleuth – while sitting at home and contributing ideas. But this is different. This is about Death Eaters. And it may force me to come out of hiding. Believe me, I'd love to be wrong," he said, and I silently cursed myself for not realising the problem at once. Especially the part about Severus's hiding place – for La Caunette was just that.

"What was Sybill's object again?" Severus continued. "A Mandala?"

"Yes – that is to say, her version of it. Mandalas do not usually carry text, but this one had two of her prophecies. Her strongest ones, she called them, but 'the only true ones' would have been a better expression. They …. Damn!"

I stared at him in dismay.

"Rose told me about them. Remember? She said one of them was about Harry being the Chosen one, and she hadn't quite cracked the other, but it was about a _Servant_ and his _Master_. I don't know whether Albus told you …"

It seemed unlikely that Albus would not have told Severus, but one never knew. Albus did play his cards very close to his chest.

"He did," said Severus. "That second prophecy refers to Pettigrew himself. And it was a true one. It happened just like Sybill said. Of course, it was only after the fact that one had any idea of what it was about. But that's the whole thing about those Seers, isn't it? By the time a thing has happened, one doesn't need a prophecy anymore, and when it hasn't happened yet, the prophecy is too damn vague to be of any use."

"My thoughts exactly," I said. With Sybill's retirement, Divination had finally disappeared from the Hogwarts curriculum. We currently have a visiting Professor from Beauxbatons, who teaches French. It is going very well, and I do not think I'll encounter many difficulties in making the position a permanent one. I set more store by speaking languages than by speaking in tongues.

"But _revenons à nos moutons_, said Severus. "Or rather, to our little rat. The prophecy was about him. Mind, it only dealt with the events that took place that night – the night Black and Pettigrew both returned. I don't see how it could say anything about his current or future plans. But there is a connection between Pettigrew and Sybill's mandala."

"There is," I confirmed. "It may not fit completely. But it … it doesn't _unfit_. I know that's not a word, but you get my point."

Severus nodded. "That leaves only the clock. How do we set about that?"

"We'll need to interrogate people," I said. "Find more facts. But preferably without alerting anyone to what we're up to."

"Definitely without that," said Severus. "Now, who would be a good source of information? The Weasley family suggests itself, but which one? Who knows most about Pettigrew?"

"About the clock, you mean," I corrected him. "That's what we need to find out."

"Yes, but any Weasley can tell that. I'm thinking Pettigrew lived in their household as a pet. Which one might know most about him?"

"Severus, you're a genius," I exclaimed. "It completely slipped my mind, but he did! We must definitely interrogate a Weasley – it'll give us lots of information. Let me think. The last few years Pettigrew lived there, he was Ron's pet. He went straight from there to Voldemort. I think I should go and do the interview – there's no need for you to come out of hiding yet. We can discuss everything when I get back."

"Excellent," said Severus. "But what excuse will you use? You can't say you've taken up DE hunting in your holidays. Or that you're Minerva McGonagall, Spinster Detective, on a secret case. And while you might bring up the clock burglary casually, I can't see how you could throw in a casual, 'So, Ron, tell me all about your former pet, Peter Pettigrew."

"One needs a pretext, of course," I said. "That's how I always operate – and so does Miss Marple. I've told you about the technique."

"Yes, but you're not a harmless, nattering old lady," Severus countered. "That's completely out of character."

"It isn't about the harmless old lady," I told him. "It's about prejudices and how to use them. Remember how I used 'spinster schoolteacher who sees students as substitute children' in the Cat Show case? Let me think about this. I'll find a way."

I sat silently for some time. I wanted to ask specific, detailed information about Pettigrew. Why would a spinster schoolmarm want that? In the middle of her precious holidays? What do schoolmarms do in their holidays? They take educational trips. To see places of historic interest, Baedeker in hand.

Not entirely untrue, but a dead end where Pettigrew fact-finding was concerned. What else do they do? The difficulty is, to most students schoolteachers do not have a life. Their idea of leisure is marking papers. They are only ever interested in their subject.

True, Ron Weasley left school a long time ago, and he may now realise that I am not stored on an empty shelf in my classroom at the end of the day. But what would he expect me to do in my holidays, other than the small educational trip? Read about Transfiguration, probably.

Wait …

That was it!

I looked at Severus, positively beaming. "I've found it," I said, and I must confess that I couldn't quite hide my pride. "I'm writing an article about the various forms of Animagi. Or better still, a book. Hermione might look out for an article and wonder why it isn't in _Transfiguration Today_ at some point. A book can take years. And for that book of mine, I want to hear all about Peter Pettigrew, the Animagus who lived in his form for over a decade."

Softly, almost soundlessly, Severus applauded. "Perfection. You _are_ brilliant at this detective work. It's all about the prejudice, you're so right. Not a vague, nattering old lady, but a scholarly old biddy with a pet subject. The way to go."

So it was. I sent Ron Weasley an Owl at once, to the Wiltshire address. We got a reply two days later, and luck was on my side. Ron and Hermione had taken their children on a trip to Paris, and Molly had forwarded my Owl to their hotel.

_Hermione wants the kids to see the city and become familiar with another culture,_ wrote Ron. _I think they're still a bit young for it, but anyhow, that's where we are, and the children like it so far. I've put my foot down about not more than two museums during our trip. Hermione is a wonderful guide, who really makes things interesting, but she can go on a bit sometimes._

_But tomorrow they'll go to the Carnavalet in the morning – about the history of Paris, I gather. I won't mind giving it a miss, and Hermione won't mind my not going if it's to help you. Do have lunch with us afterwards – she'd hate to miss your visit completely._


	5. Chapter 5

When I returned from my trip to Paris, Severus had a bottle of chilled rosé ready. "You've had a solid, Parisian lunch," he said, "so I've just made a cold supper. And I've done some spell-work on that ballpoint. It works like a Quick Quill now; it will take notes while you tell me about your trip."

He clearly took his side-kick part very seriously. The Quick Quill was inspired, of course – just what we needed. And the 'cold supper' was _omelettes froides de legumes en terrine_, a dish that takes half a day to prepare. I'd practically kill for it.

I sighed with pleasure. "If anything could make me feel better, this would," I said. "But I'm afraid the news from Ron is not good. Let me tell you first. I don't want to spoil my dinner with it."

We sat down with a preliminary glass of rosé and I launched into my tale.

"First the worst bit. The clock does have a link with Harry."

"What!" exclaimed Severus. "But you said …"

"I did. It used to be just the Weasleys – Arthur, Molly, and their children. But Ron told me how, about a year after the war, Molly and Arthur had it changed to include dials for their grandchildren. Hermione's idea, Ron told me, was that Molly wanted the clock to be about new life, as well. You see, as it stood, it was the children, but with Fred's dial hanging limply. It was a permanent reminder of their loss. Molly couldn't bear to throw it out, but she couldn't bear to remove Fred's dial, either. So she added the new life. That explanation does make sense – Hermione's ideas usually do.

"He, Ron, I mean, was a bit in two minds about it. On the one hand, he understands why Molly did it. "It's sweet, really, and we all appreciate Mum's feelings," he said. "But the thing is – she … well … she's great, but she can be a bit … interfering. I know Harry and Hermione feel … well … monitored, sometimes. I mean – we're the parents, not Mum."

Severus nodded. "So, basically, there was a clock that would indicate when Potter's children are in danger, and that clock is now gone. You're right. That's bad."

"On the plus side, Pettigrew didn't have a sweet tooth. I inquired into his eating habits – told Ron I wanted to find out whether as an Animagus he would eat the same sort of things he'd eat as a human. They got him special feed for rodents, of course. But he had a strong preference for anything savoury. Cheese. Sausage. Olives. It was entertaining to see him clutch an olive in his little paws and nibble, said Ron. He would not refuse a piece of cake, but he just loved anything savoury."

"So the snacks remain a piece that doesn't fit," said Severus.

"I've also asked about his relationships with the various family members. To … to see who might be most at risk, really," I continued. Severus nodded again, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. We were reaching the point where we had to prevent an attack – and I could only hope that was what we would end up doing, rather than solving a murder that had been committed despite our efforts.

"Pettigrew came into the household as Charlie's pet," I told Severus. "It seemed he liked Charlie, who is, of course, a natural with animals. During a summer holiday Charlie went to stay with a friend, and Bill was asked to look after Scabbers – that's what Pettigrew the rat was called. But Bill neglected his duties. Ron found out and fed Scabbers instead. And then Arthur found out, and he was absolutely livid. Ron said it was one of the few times he whacked one of his boys.

"Arthur made it painfully clear to Bill that neglecting an animal in one's care is an utterly despicable thing to do. Bill was punished, and Ron was made responsible for the rat. At the end of that summer, the children all returned to Hogwarts, and Ron and Ginny were the only ones left behind. It was the twins' first year. Charlie, who noticed how much Ron hated staying home alone with just a younger sister for company, gave him Scabbers.

"Ron told me Scabbers didn't seem to like the twins much. They called him a 'big, fat, lazy rat'. Scabbers would do things like leave his droppings on their possessions. Or nibble the pages of their books. But he really disliked Bill. They thought he remembered what had happened, and Arthur used it for years as a further lesson in how dreadful it is to neglect an animal.

"Ron also told me Scabbers defended him once. He bit Draco Malfoy when Draco was bullying Ron. And he told me something else, too – Pettigrew faked his own death again, at Hogwarts. Ron thought Hermione's Kneazle had killed Scabbers. They had found bloodstains on a sheet. Ron and Hermione even fell out over it. In the end, they realised it had been a fake."

"So, methodically speaking – for we are agreed that it does look strongly as if Pettigrew is alive?" asked Severus. I agreed. Severus then started to list the possibilities, checking that the Quick Quill ballpoint did its job.

"Methodically speaking, then, we have:  
Molly and Arthur – but Arthur spoke up for Scabbers and defended him, so to speak.  
Charlie – Scabbers likes him. And he and Paul have no children.  
Bill – strong dislike. And they do have a child, you told me.  
Percival? He has children, but is there any indication Pettigrew hates him?"

There wasn't, and I told him so. "And Pettigrew liked Ginny – Ginny played with him in the year she and Ron were at home together." I said. "George is still single."

So Pettigrew might want to attack Bill's child. But the removal of Potter artefacts pointed towards a hatred of Harry – understandable in Pettigrew's case. Only, Harry's children were Ginny's, too. I put these points before Severus.

"I've thought about that, today. After all, Weasley knows about Pettigrew during his undercover years, so to speak, but I lived in the same house with him during the Voldemort period. Unfortunately, we never spoke much. I treated him every inch like a servant. That was what Voldemort expected me to do. And Pettigrew pretended it was an assignment he resented. He needed to hide the fact that he was there as Voldemort's spy, of course.

"But I did drop the occasional derogatory remark about Order members. So that Pettigrew would have the right sort of thing to report. And on one occasion he did speak up for someone. I was surprised at the time, but your story of Ron being good to him and Pettigrew defending him by biting Draco was quite revealing. It seems he has some sense of loyalty."

I noticed that Severus used the present tense in speaking about Pettigrew. It confirmed that we both thought the same thing – he was alive and behind the ScAvenger business.

"I once said something about Lupin. Called him a scrofulous mongrel," Severus continued. "and Pettigrew got angry. I've tried to recall his exact words, and I think I managed."

I didn't doubt it. Severus has an excellent retentive memory, and his ability to remember conversations verbatim is astonishing. Severus then started to repeat Pettigrew's words, and he even sounded a bit like him. Slightly whinging.

_"Remus is OK; don't you call him a mongrel. He can't help being a werewolf. But he's OK. He tried to defend you, you know. Told Black and Potter to stop the bullying. It was all Black and Potter – you know it was. Remus just went along. He'd never had friends, you see. And they were his friends."_

"I told him they had all been despicable bullies and that there was no excuse. And that both he and Lupin had been as bad as the others. He claimed again that it was Black and Potter mostly, that Lupin went along because he'd never had friends. I asked him what his, Pettigrew's, excuse had been. This is what he told me.

_"At first, I wanted to be like them. And they accepted me, and it was great. But then I began to understand that they weren't really my friends. I wasn't their equal. I was the clown. The stupid one. The hanger-on. The one who was there to make wonderful Black and Potter look even better. Called me 'Wormtail', they did."_

_"Black was the worst. He sent you to the Shrieking Shack, remember? Remus was devastated when he found out. And Potter wasn't concerned about you – he just wanted to do the noble, Gryffindor thing and save his enemy. Because it would make him look good._

_"Black even tried to blame me. Told Dumbledore I'd suggested it. I had not! Dumbledore didn't believe Black. But it made Remus doubt. Remus really had been my friend, and because of Black he ended up doubting me._

_"Well, I got back at them. At both of them. Potter wanted to be a big hero – and he ended up being a big, dead hero._

_"And Black tried to frame me – so I framed him."_

I stared at him. "So you're telling me Pettigrew ended up hating James and Sirius, and he took revenge?"

"Yes, and there is worse. On one occasion Pettigrew said something about Harry Potter, and I reminded him Potter had saved his life. He said that Potter was just like his father, just like James. Wanted to look like a big hero. Saving people all over the place, but really despising them. And Potter would end like his father: a big, dead hero, because one day he'd fall into a trap, too."

We both knew what Severus meant. If Pettigrew would attack one of the Weasley grandchildren – Victoire, possibly, which would mean revenge on Bill, as well – Harry would come to the rescue. Would walk into the trap.

0+0+0+0+0

We then talked until past midnight about what to do next. With singularly little result.

The best thing would be to ferret out Pettigrew's hiding place. However, this was simply not possible. As a rat he could hide anywhere. Once can't check the entire British rodent population.

The second best thing would be to catch him red-handed at his next attempt – but there was no saying where that would be.

The third idea was to lay a trap for him. But how? We needed to make sure that the place was accessible, contained food and a Potter artefact, and, the most difficult part, we had to make sure he'd go there on a specific date.

In the end, Severus said he'd try to come up with something. A detective he might not be, but he knew how to lay a trap and plan ahead. He mentioned that Elphias Doge's birthday party had been the occasion for Pettigrew's first burglary. His reasoning was that Pettigrew had chosen the night after the party because of the large number of guests – each and every one of whom could be a suspect for stealing the Potter picture. Later on, Pettigrew seemed to have grown more confident, as there were no guests at Sybill's.

This made me sit up straight. "Wait a minute," I said. "There's one more thing the burglaries have in common – three of them do, at least. On three occasions, the Weasley tribe was near-by. They all went to Elphias's party. He's an old friend of the family.

"They were all staying at Arthur and Molly's place when Sybill was burgled, too. And you remember that letter Molly sent me? She wrote that Fleur, Hermione, and Ginny and their families all went to Diagon Alley to do the Hogwarts shopping ahead of the end-of-August rush. Before they would set off on their individual holidays. The affair at Florean's shop was during that time.

"I don't know about the burglary the Burrow, but …"

We looked at each other. "That's the most vital one – the one that removed the clock which could warn them," said Severus. "A sufficient reason to deviate from the pattern. For a pattern it is. And that will help us. We need to create an occasion where the Weasley tribe can be invited –with a possibility to stay the night. Preferably in a public place, with plenty of food. And there must be a Potter artefact."

"And we'd better not wait too long," I added. "At some point, Pettigrew may get tired of the ScAvenger act and strike for real. This is one case where I don't want to end up investigating a genuine abduction – or worse."

"True," said Severus. "Now, for this so-called social occasion. We couldn't set up anything here – in France, I mean?"

"It would be difficult," I said. "Make that impossible. The Weasleys are on their various holidays, and what could I possibly invent to make them all go through the expense and bother of the trip? It would take something on the scale of a wedding to make people travel that far – a real once-in-a-lifetime event. So it will have to be in September. Hogsmeade suggests itself. School will have started by then, and I can't be away for too long."

"I've an idea," said Severus. "What about your birthday? We'd have to wait until October 4th, which is unfortunate, but we must hope that Pettigrew won't strike before that date. You could give a big birthday party and invite all the Weasleys. It would be a perfect occasion."

"Except for one thing," I said, sternly. "I _never_ celebrate my birthday. It's a well-known fact. It would be utterly out-of-character for me to give a party. I can't think of anything I'd like less."

"True, it would be thought odd. Unless – it wouldn't happen to be a crown year, would it? That might be a reason."

"I'll be 87 this year," I said, with some considerable relief. Pomona and Poppy have told me for years that birthdays can be fun. And for years I've agreed with them, pointing out that the 'fun' is in celebrating exactly as one wishes. _But you don't celebrate,_ they would argue. _Let me leave it alone, then,_ I would answer, feeling as miserly as Ebenezer Scrooge himself, but refusing to give in. I knew they would love my change of heart and throw themselves wholeheartedly in the preparations. As would Filius, who is a very perceptive man and has never put any pressure on me, but who does love a good party.

They would have surprises.

They might have songs, even.

The mind boggles.

Severus smiled. "I can see that this would have to be a last resort," he said. "Is there anything else we can think of?"

"Hermione's birthday is in September," I said. "But I don't see how we can contrive to make her give a big party in Hogsmeade with all Weasley children present."

"How many are at Hogwarts right now?" Severus asked.

"So far, only Victoire, the eldest girl of Bill and Fleur. Next year, there will be a second one, Dominique, I think, and if I remember correctly Percy's eldest girl will start as well. But this coming September, Victoire is the only one – and Teddy Lupin, who is almost a member of the tribe. He's Harry's godson, you see, and he very often stays with Harry and Ginny. But he's not on the Weasley clock."

"It might be feasible to get Victoire to Hermione's birthday party, if it was in Hogsmeade," said Severus. "But I don't see how we can arrange it without taking her into our confidence. And that would mean she'd tell Ron and Harry, and we'd have the whole tribe in a panic."

"Not necessarily," I countered. I felt there was much merit in this notion of Hermione's birthday. It is mid-September, if my memory serves me right, and for all sorts of reasons it would be so much more suitable than my own. Because, for instance, … Well, it would just be much better.

"We would have to confide in those three," I explained. "Harry, Ron, and Hermione, I mean. But they know how to keep secrets; they can play their cards as close to their chest as Albus, almost." I sighed. For six years, that particular ability had been the blight of my existence. _Why is it always you three?_ I had asked them once. But in this case, it might work to our advantage.

On the other hand, an enforced collaboration between Potter and Severus might turn this case into the least cosy mystery in the history of cosies.

We discussed the matter for some time, Severus listing arguments in favour of my birthday, I promoting Hermione's, but with lessening ardour, for I began to see that monitoring the Potter/Snape collaboration might arguably be the one thing worse than having a birthday party.

In the end, we decided to give it a good night's sleep. And the next morning, Argus Filch came to the rescue.


	6. Chapter 6

Whenever I am away from Hogwarts during my holidays, Argus monitors my Owls and sends on those he thinks important. So far, his judgment has never failed him. And on this occasion, too, I could clearly see why he had decided to send on Neville Longbottom's Owl – even though Argus could not possibly know just how much it was manna from heaven.

I must begin by explaining that Neville Longbottom, who had always had a marked ability for Herbology, started his career by helping out Pomona Sprout in the year after the battle. Much damage had been done to the conservatories, and Pomona, who had sustained a back injury during the fight, was badly in need of help. In the end, Neville stayed on for two years, and then he decided to take a degree in Herbology. He had assisted Pomona with lessons as well, and he had discussed with both of us the possibility of a teaching position at Hogwarts. We were both more than agreeable, and when Neville returned four years later, with a first, too, he had been given the position of assistant teacher.

It was a part-time position, which suited everyone. Pomona was not ready to retire fully yet, but she enjoyed a lightening of her teaching duties. And Neville used his free time to prepare a PhD, which he had nearly completed when the summer holidays started.

He now wrote to me saying that the thesis was finished, and, moreover, would be printed as a book – aimed at a rather larger audience than is usual for such works. He was modest about it, Neville invariably is, but it was clear to me that he had managed to write a truly seminal work.

Neville would obtain his PhD early in September, and two days special leave had already been arranged before the holidays. But the publisher wanted to present the book at a separate little gathering.

Neville wanted this to take place at the Hog's Head. Ever since the year of the Battle, he has been very close to Aberforth, and Neville is nothing if not loyal to his friends.

He wanted it to be a small gathering, with just his closest friends present. Since these would include Harry Potter, it would still make_The Daily Prophet_, and the publisher was more than ready to fall in with his wishes.

Augusta Longbottom, however, had other ideas. They involved the Leaky, a party tent, and a guest list of over a hundred people.

Neville wrote to say that he didn't want to inconvenience Hogwarts further with additional leave of absence, and if only I would confirm that Saturday 8th September would be convenient for the staff, he would inform Augusta that everything was settled.

Augusta Longbottom has been on the Hogwarts Board of Directors for years, and a very active board member she is. Argus knows exactly how I feel about her activities, even though I have obviously never used the word 'meddling' in his presence. Hence his forwarding of the letter.

I saw at once that Neville's book launch was the perfect event for our trap. Much better than Hermione's birthday which would involve all the awkwardness of a Severus/Harry alliance, and certainly much better than a birthday party for me.

Severus agreed at once that this was an occasion made in heaven. I was faintly surprised at his immediate enthusiasm – his opinions on Longbottom when the latter was still his student had been strong. And misjudged, to my mind. I know I have a sharp tongue myself, and there have been occasions where I later regretted a remark to a student, judging it a discouragement rather the correction I had intended. But Severus sometimes paralyzed students with his sarcasm. They were that terrified they were simply beyond learning anything.

I know that later on, in his La Caunette years, when he no longer needed to teach for a living, he agreed with me. His inability to suffer fools gladly made him not precisely unsuitable for a teaching position, but definitely unsuitable for teaching young children. He always did wonders with his N.E.W.T. students, though.

"I've had occasion to observe Longbottom during my year as Headmaster," Severus said. "I was favourably impressed. I know he'll agree to help if you put the situation to him, and he'll be a useful ally. We'll have to tell him, I think?"

"If we want to make sure he invites the right people, yes," I said. "He might not invite Bill and Fleur otherwise. Just Ron, Harry, and Hermione. Also, we'll need a Potter artefact in the Hogs Head. Aberforth doesn't have one."

"Aberforth is the salt of the earth," said Severus. "But where telling Longbottom is concerned ... I was just hesitating because … from what you just told me, it's his big day. This book, I mean. His achievement. And here we are, risking to mess it up with … well … with a Death Eater hunt."

I was touched. Severus had thought of something I had completely overlooked myself in my eagerness to get rid of the dreaded birthday party. But he was absolutely right: Neville would agree to help at once, because he is that sort of person, but he also deserved his day in the sun without any DE associations. After everything he has suffered because of them, and he has suffered more than most people, there should not be a cloud on this, his special day.

It showed uncommon kindness and insight on Severus's sight, and he would not thank me for saying so.

So we simply discussed the possibility of hiding our plans from Neville. I could ask him, as a special favour, to invite Bill and Fleur. If necessary I could invent a reason, but as Neville's Headmistress, I might not even be obliged to give one.

And it seemed most likely that Pettigrew would make his move after the party. That had been the pattern before – the middle of the night, when everyone in the house was asleep, or an empty house, as in Sybill's case. The Hog's Head was rarely empty during the day, so he would go for the night. Neville need not know a thing. Severus and I could stay behind and guard the place.

Aberforth would have to be in our confidence. But Aberforth was taciturn by nature, and Severus trusted him. Severus pointed out that, as a worst-case scenario, Pettigrew might manage to kill one of us, might even manage to injure another, and escape in rat-shape. That would still leave two people aware of the danger. We did not underestimate Pettigrew's abilities, but the chance that he would be able to kill all three of us seemed strictly hypothetical – we are all quite good at magic.

I was glad to note that on this occasion, Severus had no intention whatsoever of playing a lone hand. It was that tendency of his that had caused a long coldness between us. This time, clearly, it would be different.

It was with some hesitation that I then brought up the subject of Severus's own participation. I knew how much he valued the peace and quiet he had finally found in La Caunette, and if truth be told, I'd sooner ask Neville to join Aberforth and myself, however much I agreed with Severus that he deserved his day in the sun, than ask Severus to come out of hiding.

But, as I soon found out, I had underestimated Severus's ability to think of everything.

"I wouldn't dream of accompanying you," he said. "You will be accompanied by a Monsieur Dupont – a Frenchman with an English mother, hence his fluency in the language. I am a dab hand at brewing potions, you know."

I saw what he meant at once. "But will the Polyjuice be ready in time?" I asked. Of course, Severus had thought of that, too.

"I always have a decent quantity ready," he told me. "Ever since your first visit. Just in case you … well, just in case."

Just in case I needed him.

I gave him a quick smile, which was about as much gratefulness as he could handle.

"Where did you find Monsieur Dupont?" I asked him.

"At the local hairdresser's," Severus replied. "It seemed a good place to collect a few locks of hair."

I carefully kept a poker face, but I was delighted. There was a hairdresser in this story, after all. Severus Poirot, Master Detective. It was too good to be true.

We quickly drew up the rest of our plans. I would discuss things with Aberforth. Aberforth would have to come up with some sort of Potter artefact, and we would spread the news of it being there. He wouldn't like it, but he would see the necessity.

I would write to Neville, confirm 8th September, and ask him whether Bill and Fleur were on the guest list, explaining that it would be rather convenient for me if they were.

And Severus would arrive in good time for the party. We both felt that the set-up was too good for Pettigrew to resist. All the vital Weasleys present. Lots of food to be had. A Potter artefact. And, best of all, the possibility to check out the Hog's Head. If we were right, and Pettigrew was considering Victoire to lure Harry into a trap, he'd want to check out a place that had a hidden corridor to the castle – well, not exactly hidden since the mass-evacuation of the battle, but it would still be very useful for a rat.

After that, we decided to make the most of what was left of my holiday.


	7. Chapter 7

When I got back to Hogwarts, the first thing I did after unpacking my bags was to go through my in-tray. As I had hoped, there was a letter from Neville, thanking me for my cooperation and confirming that he had invited Bill and Fleur. They had both accepted.

Then I went to see Aberforth. 8th September was approaching quickly, and he needed to be informed. Also, there was the matter of the Potter artefact.

While we were sitting in his living room, with two glasses of Firewhisky and the bottle ready on the table, I thought once again how similar Aberforth and Albus really were. True, Albus could elevate small talk to an art if it suited him, and, as Aberforth said when we were both laying out the dead after the Battle, amidst the screams and tears of their bereft families, "I always knew I had no small talk, and now I know I have no big talk, either."

But he has the same capacity for listening that Albus had. Listening closely, without interruptions, and then grasping all the salient facts.

"Bit about the food is strange," was Aberforth's first remark after I had finished my tale. "Prefers savoury – can't go to a shop for anything – still only takes sweet things, and not all the food. Would have been child's play to shrink it."

"That's true," I said. "It's the one thing Pierre and I can't fit in." I had told Aberforth what he needed to know about Monsieur Pierre Dupont, my good friend from France, who had been so very helpful working out the details of this case.

"Makes it sound like a prank after all," said Aberforth. "But I see your point. Can't very well wait until we've found a corpse to make sure."

I noticed the use of 'we'. That was Aberforth at his best. Neither small talk nor big – just the immediate acceptance that he was in on this, that it was now his fight, too.

"Now, about the Potter artefact," I said. "You wouldn't happen …"

"No. Stupid nonsense. Potter's a decent chap. Doesn't like to see his face plastered all over Wizarding Britain. People should think about how he feels, not about their own glory. But that's people for you. Give me goats any day."

He paused for a moment, and refilled our glasses. For Aberforth, it had been a long speech.

"Was an article once, though. Few months after the Battle. Skeeter woman wrote it. About the Hog's Head and Potter meeting his friends here. For that so-called "Dumbledore's Army". _The Other Dumbledore_, she called it. Quoted me at length. Never said a word to her, mind."

We agreed that I would get the article from _The Daily Prophet_'s ledgers, on the pretence that Aberforth wanted it for his pub, and that I would make sure the news spread around. Several of my former students work for the _Prophet_, so getting the article would be easy. And I could arrange to meet whomever would get it for me at The Leaky Cauldron. I would just have to mention Aberforth's desire to have it during a moment when Tom was at our table. Tom spreads news faster than any paper could.

All seemed in readiness for the night of 8th September. Monsieur Dupont would arrive in the early hours of the 8th, I told Aberforth. He probably wouldn't need a bed, as he planned to leave as quickly as possible afterwards, but if necessary he'd stay in one of the Hog's Head's guest rooms.

0+0+0+0+0

The day of 8th September duly arrived, and Neville's book launch was an outstanding success. While it has no immediate bearing on this case, there was one surprising event my readers may find interesting.

The launch started as these things do, with a very enthusiastic encomium from Neville's publisher. His praise was both exuberant and well-deserved. I have not read the book myself yet, but Pomona has read the first draft, and she has assured me it is a work that should be one of the Hogwarts set books for N.E.W.T. level Herbology. That was the short version - her full report on the book's excellence took three hours.

Then Neville made a very good speech himself. He was brief, with a few warm words for Pomona, his mentor, for Augusta, who had taught him never to give up, and for his mother, whom he thanked for passing on her well-known gift for gardening. I freely admit that I had to swallow a few times when Neville included Alice in his achievements.

He ended on a touch of humour – said he also wanted to thank his good friends Harry, Hermione, and Ron, for listening to his whinging while he wrote the book. Even if they made him pay for a round whenever he mentioned the M-word.

When Neville said "M-word", everyone looked up in shocked surprise, of course. But all was made clear. Neville explained that, since his generous publisher paid for today's drinks, he now felt free to tell them that they really should read the chapter on the Mimbulus Mimbeltonia, for the Mimbulus Mimbeltonia was a most interesting plant, and he, Neville, couldn't understand how people could ever get tired of hearing about it. He ended his speech with a toast "to the Mimbulus Mimbeltonia".

Amidst general laughter, Neville gave the first copies of the book to his Gran and Pomona, and after that everyone had a lovely time chatting and catching up with each other. I made a point of talking to Bill and Fleur and of making sure Neville saw me do it – I had, after all, asked him to invite them.

It was easy to find a topic for conversation, for everyone mentioned the one, big surprise: Augusta attended the gathering in her trade-mark green robes, red bag at her arm, but… with a new, very fetching velvet hat. Black, with a green band and just one small feather.

We all wondered how that particular miracle had come to pass, and the end Neville told me he had 'told his Gran that a new hat was in order, and she quite agreed with him'. A feat that puts much more than just one feather in Neville's cap, in my opinion.

When the party broke up, I pretended to leave for Hogwarts but returned when everyone else had left. Aberforth and I covered the remaining food but left it clearly in sight on the counter. We checked that the article about Potter was still in its frame on the wall and fetched Monsieur Dupont from his upstairs room, where he had awaited the end of the festivities.

And then we settled down to wait. Severus and Aberforth stood behind the counter, ready to duck and hide at the slightest sounds, and I sat on one of the tables, in cat-shape. As Severus had pointed out, "a cat on the premises is useful when it comes to dealing with a rat."

Aberforth had grunted that a ferret wouldn't come amiss, either. "A _furet_? Very true. But we will be the _furets_, if necessary, _Monsieur_ Dumbledore," said Monsieur Dupont, fully in character. He had even gone as far as to inquire what the correct word would be for a group of _furets_.

"A business," said Aberforth. "And call me Abe. Don't care for _Monsieur_ Dumbledore."

"We will be a Business of Ferrets, then, Abe," smiled Monsieur Dupont, adding that he was called Pierre.

I could see that the title for this case had been decided then and there. _The Business of Ferrets_ it would be.

After that little exchange we remained silent and waited as the autumn evening turned into night.


	8. Chapter 8

It must have been around midnight when we heard sounds on the first floor. Severus and I had checked out the place very carefully earlier that evening, and we were almost as familiar with its lay-out as Aberforth. The sounds were those of the portrait in the sitting room, Ariana's portrait, opening slowly.

Silently, Severus and Aberforth moved from behind the bar to the main area. Whoever had entered the place would come down the rickety wooden staircase behind the bar. It was surprising that Pettigrew, if it was Pettigrew, would come from the corridor to Hogwarts, rather than from outside. Surprising and worrying.

Had he been present, in rat-shape, during the afternoon? Had he managed to sneak upstairs, in the heat of the party, and used the corridor already? If so – what about Victoire? Was Pettigrew _returning_ from whatever he planned to do – and what would we find at Hogwarts?

We did not have to wait long for an answer. There were footsteps on the staircase – two pair of them. Very soft and muffled, as if the intruders had taken off their shoes.

And sure enough we saw two pairs of legs. Clad in socks and blue jeans. And far too skinny to be Pettigrew's.

Students!

Severus quickly threw a wordless camouflage spell and withdrew into the furthest shadows, and I jumped silently off the table I had been sitting on and hid underneath. Students might recognize my Animagus form – I use it in class, and it is always a moment when everyone pays attention.

Aberforth struck the pose of a publican who unexpectedly hears intruders in his house, and very convincing he was.

And then the students were fully visible.

I almost gasped.

Victoire Weasley and Teddy Lupin!

The very last ones we wanted to see here.

Aberforth, like the experienced fighter he was, instantly did the right thing. He drew his wand and threw a _Petrificus Totalus_. The miscreants went down like logs. He then cast a _Mufflatio_ around them, so that we could speak freely.

"There," said Aberforth. "Nothing odd about a man petrifying an intruder. Headmistress won't cut up roughly with me for doing that to students – not when I thought there was danger."

"Nor will the parents; I'll see to that," I said, having Transfigured back as soon as the children went down. "Quick thinking, Abe. Now what shall we do?"

"Pettigrew may still come in," said Severus. "This may just be a coincidence."

"True," I said, "but …"

There was no need to spell it out. All along we had told each other that, while everything fitted the Pettigrew scenario (except for that one detail of the sweet snacks), everything still fitted the Teenage Prank case, too. Was this the solution of the mystery? Could we take the risk?

"If Pettigrew shows up, " I said, "he'll most likely come from outside. And while he will probably slip in as a rat, for convenience sake he'll Transfigure as soon as he sees the coast is clear. Rats don't have opposing thumbs."

"At which point I can Petrify him," said Severus. His camouflage spell was outstanding – Pettigrew wouldn't be able to spot him.

"Meanwhile," Severus continued, "Aberforth can Levitate these two upstairs and undo the Petrificus. He'll then question him – as he would, had he found them by accident. That way we'll know what their story is, and Minerva can listen in."

"Aye," said Aberforth. "She'll be comfy enough under the sofa."

Given the proverbial lack of cleanliness in the Hog's Head, that seemed highly debatable. But I've fought in three wars, and I've known worse. We fell in with Severus's suggestion readily enough, and Aberforth and I Levitated the students to the sitting room. I took up my position under the sofa, and Aberforth broke the spell.

"And what do you think you're doing?" he shouted, as soon as Teddy and Victoire had struggled to an upright position. "Sneaking out at night? Up to no good, you are." And he Accio'ed their wands.

"We … we … we …" stammered Teddy.

"We were … we were just …." added Victoire.

"Just what, exactly?" thundered Aberforth.

"Doing a kitchen raid," said Teddy, with the look of someone who thinks he sees a small ray of light at the end of a tunnel.

"Kitchen raid?" said Aberforth. "This is Hogwarts' kitchen? This is where all those Elves cook dinner for a few hundred people? Fancy that. And I never noticed a thing. Must be my old age."

"Yes … No … Well … Yes …" said Victoire. She took a deep breath and confessed, "Neville's – Professor Longbottom, I mean – his party. For the book. We've heard all about it. From our parents."

"And from Harry," said Teddy, as if that justified their situation. "And we thought …"

"You thought you'd come here and steal my food," said Aberforth. He said it in a perfectly calm voice, but with such a well-pitched inflexion that the two children suddenly fully realized that what they had been doing was, in fact, stealing. Not a prank at all, but theft. Something to be ashamed of.

And ashamed they were.

I was, once again, strongly aware of the resemblance between the Dumbledore brothers. In exactly such a tone Albus had made generations of miscreants aware of their deeds, whenever a prank crossed the line to a serious misdemeanour.

Albus would then assume the students' mistake had been a genuine one. That they had truly not realized how unfunny their so-called prank had been, and that, now that they had a more grown-up insight, they were sorry and would never do it again. For they were not, of course, the kind of people who would intentionally commit a despicable deed.

Albus's skills in achieving a true learning moment for the students had been honed in decades of teaching, but the way Aberforth spoke and looked at the now very red-faced children showed the innate talent that clearly ran in the Dumbledore family.

"Did you take anything from me?" asked Aberforth.

"No, we didn't. Truly we didn't," said Teddy.

"We didn't have time," added Victoire. "We came for the party food and …" she stopped suddenly. And for the picture of Harry, of course.

"Good," said Aberforth, and paused briefly. "Only I'll have to check that. Can't really trust you, can I? Get up."

The two children scrambled to their feet. They were positively puce by now, realizing they were the kind of people whose word one cannot trust.

"Accio," said Aberforth, with a disdainful flick of his wand. I could not see what came out of their pockets, but I heard the crackling of a piece of parchment.

"Is this note a private one, or does it have to do with you being here?" asked Aberforth.

I could practically hear Teddy swallow, and then I heard him say, "It has to do with us being here. Sir." Clearly Aberforth's lesson was working.

I heard further crackling as Aberforth unfolded the note. _"The ScAvengers were here,_" he read out loud. "The ScAvengers? You two are behind that business? Best tell me all, then."

I heaved a deep but noiseless sigh. The Scavengers! A teenage prank, after all. I must admit that my first reaction was to be right royally pissed off. There are no other words for it. All that work, all that anxiety we had suffered, our fears that we would be too late, that we would end up investigating a real crime, perhaps even a murder. And it was a teenage prank after all.

As I had said from the beginning.

Damn Severus!

My only consolation was that Severus, standing at the bottom of the staircase, listening with all his might, would feel as bad as I did. If only I could throw him the look he so very much deserved. It would be a Look with a capital L, as soon as I would have the chance, I promised myself.

"Come on," said Aberforth. "Out with it." And the children began their tale.

"It was just a joke," said Victoire.

"Or we thought it was," added Teddy.

"Like a kitchen raid, you know, Sir," said Victoire. "The first one was after Elphias Doge's birthday party at the Leaky. We all went there. All the Weasleys, I mean. And Teddy, of course. And we were hungry and we felt like a bit of fruit cake and we went down together."

"And then we took the cake," Teddy continued, "and we looked around a bit. And we saw that picture of Harry. And he hates those pictures, really, he does. He hates that everyone always goes on about the Battle and him being The Chosen One. He doesn't want to talk about it."

"But everyone always does," Victoire added. "Not just to Uncle Harry. To us, too, all the time. And we hate it. I mean, I know it was very important, and that everyone was very brave, and that we live in a safe world because of them. We _know_ that, Sir, really we do. But …"

"You don't want to hear about it all the time." Teddy had taken up the story again. They reminded me of the Weasley Twin cross-talk act I had heard so often during their Hogwarts years, and I realized how strong the bond between these two must be.

"I mean," Teddy continued, "It's not … I don't know how to explain, but … You see, my parents _died_ in that battle. That's a _big_ thing. And then people go and say things like, 'how dare you climb that tree – that's dangerous, and your parents _died_ to make the world a safe place.'

"And that's just it, see? They died for a _big_ thing. For _freedom_. It wasn't about me climbing a tree or flying a broom."

"And I get the same," said Victoire. "Like, 'your Uncle _died_ to keep you all safe'. And I _know_ it's terrible that he died, and that Granny never really got over it, because Mum says it's the very worst thing in the world to lose a child. But my Uncle Fred didn't die to stop me from pulling pranks, I don't think!"

She was absolutely right there. Fred Weasley might have died of shame, had the Art of Pranking died out with the next generation. As to this whole ScAvengers thing, he would have held their coats and cheered them on.

"And then we took the picture. And we left the note." Teddy's turn again. "I said we were scavenging, and then Victoire said, no, we were Avenging Harry. And Uncle Fred and my parents and everyone who … who … well, Harry didn't fight to get his portrait on Tom's wall."

I began to feel a warm sympathy for these children. They couldn't quite put it the way they wanted to, not yet, but they objected to both the use of war heroes for people's personal glory, and the abuse of their sacrifice for unworthy things.

I remember an occasion during the year Remus Lupin held the DADA post. He informed me that Harry had sneaked out of the castle, despite orders to the contrary, to go out on Hogsmeade Saturday. And he, Remus, had brought up the topic of Harry's parents and their sacrifice when berating him.

Remus was seriously concerned whether he had done the right thing. "James would have approved of Harry," he said. "Normally, he would have been all for it. I mean, if it was just those guardians of Harry not signing the note, and him getting out regardless, James would have approved. Hell, he would have given him the … never mind … he would have been fine with it. But now …"

I had to suppress a smile. And at the same time, I had to swallow. That 'never mind' of Remus – what was it that James would have given him? Something to do with the Marauders, something Remus had nearly given away. But a Marauder doesn't grass. For one brief moment, I saw young Mr Lupin and Mr Potter.

Remus was right: James would have approved of Harry sneaking out. In normal circumstances. But in normal circumstances Harry would have grown up with his parents and …

The waste of it all. The sheer, bloody waste.

But Remus had been right, too, in bringing up James and Lily when he did, and I told him so. For the circumstances weren't normal: there was a killer out there, and Harry didn't risk a mere detention, he risked the very life his parents had died for.

And I have to admit that, on this occasion, I felt those two children were right. Bringing up the death of relatives for no better reason than tree-climbing, forbidden broom-flying and other childish pranks is emotional blackmail, nothing less.

I happen to think that blackmail is more despicable than theft.

Meanwhile the Teddy and Victoire cross-talk had gone on to the subject of the clock. It was as I had thought as soon as I heard who was behind the ScAvenger business: they had taken the clock because it might give away Victoire. True, there was no spot saying _up to no good_ on that clock. I suspect Arthur's influence there. A clock to warn for danger, yes. One to warn for pranks – no. Arthur has strong and occasionally quite unorthodox ideas about what freedom means, especially where his children are concerned.

But the children had not taken the risk and removed the clock. It was in the Weasley's attic, they explained, in an old trunk, safely wrapped in a sheet. They had justified that particular theft to themselves not just by the risk for Victoire, but because Harry hated the clock. Or rather, the monitoring of his children that was the result.

Of course they used the word 'hated' the way teenagers do: for everything from mashed swedes to the Voldemort years. But keeping in mind what Ron had told me about his and Harry's feelings on that clock, Victoire and Teddy were probably right.

I decided then and there to take up the subject of the clock's whereabouts with Arthur, not with Molly. Arthur would deal with it in the right way.

Meanwhile the children had reached the end of their story.

"Well," said Aberforth. "I'll say this for you: I can see your point about those things you took and how Harry feels about them. But they must be returned. If you had realized it was theft, you wouldn't have taken them."

The spitting image of Albus.

Victoire and Teddy nodded as if their heads would fall off.

"You two go back and you never say a word about being here. I'll deal with it. Make sure those things get returned. With the help of Headmistress McGonagall – I'll have to tell her."

A wail rose up. "No, Sir, please, no. Not McGonagall, Sir, please. She'll ground us, like, forever. Please, Sir."

"That's Headmistress McGonagall to you," said Aberforth, sternly. "And she may surprise you yet. Just leave it all to me. We're old friends, the Headmistress and I."

I could not see his face from where I was hiding, but I'm certain a conspirational wink was thrown in.

"Now, one more thing before you go," said Aberforth. I saw his feet turn around. "Accio pitcher and plate!" he called. I heard the faint whiff of things floating through the air.

"Here's a plate of cold ham and some pumpkin juice," he said. "You'll need something to build up your strength, after this adventure."

No mean feat to Accio those things up a winding staircase without spilling. People often think of Aberforth as less powerful, but they forget he is less powerful only when compared to Albus, not to the average witch or wizard.

"Give me your word of honour you'll stay quiet about all this," he continued. The children both promised.

"Now off you go. And if you get caught at the other end, remember your word," Aberforth told them.

"We will, Sir."

"We never went here."

"We went to raid the Hogwarts kitchen."

"And then we went to the Room of Requirement to eat the things. Which we'll do, Sir."

"So that's why we were caught on the way from the Room to our dorm, see?"

An excellent, on-the-spot fabrication of lies. There is more than a hint of the Weasley Twins in those two, and I will watch them sharply from now on.

Teddy and Victoire left, and Aberforth put the portrait back behind them. Silently, we both descended the staircase. Severus was waiting for us at the bottom, and I am pleased to say that, when I looked at him, he actually stared at the ground.

"Not our most glorious moment," he said.

I continued to Look.

"Not _my_ most glorious moment," he amended.

"The less said about it, the better," I said, and there was a hint of eagerness in his nod.

We took our leave of Aberforth and went behind the back of his pub – a safe place for Severus to Disapparate, well out of sight.

"In the end, of course, it's a good thing Pettigrew wasn't involved," I said.

"So it is," said Severus. "All these years I was convinced he was dead. It was just … The case against it …"

"The case against it was a believable one," I agreed. "So believable that we didn't pay enough attention to the one element that didn't fit – the snacks. We both thought it was odd, but we felt there was no time to go into it. What if it had been Pettigrew, and what if he had struck again, and quickly?"

I didn't like admitting it, but it hadn't been just Severus who was at fault – I had accepted his ideas readily, and I had been as convinced as he was that there was something serious going on.

"I assume," said Severus, casually, "that people will not want to read a case as insipid as this one."

So much for being my faithful side-kick.

So much for out-cosying Kipper Malfoy.

I had admitted that I, too, had thought there _was_ a case to investigate. And I had already shown my willingness to let bygones be bygones. In fact, I think my restraint on the subject was verging on the saintly.

But there are limits.

"I can't see Flourish and Botts rushing in to print it, true," I told Severus.

He nodded. "The plot just isn't good enough," he said, for all the world like a man who has published several Cases himself.

I let him believe in his good fortune for a few seconds.

Then I mentioned that there were, however, other ways of publication. "It's really too bad that a detective story starring 'Monsieur Dupont' won't sell anywhere," I said. "But I promise you this, my friend, if this story finds an audience, I will do full justice to the cosiest side-kick a spinster could have."

And on that pleasing prospect the case of if **Minerva McGonagall and the Business of Ferrets** came to an end.


	9. Chapter 9

Postscript

For all those who have enjoyed the Minerva McGonagall, Spinster Detective stories, here's something I'm really proud of.

The fantastic Jodel has made an illustrated book of all four stories on her website www redhen-publications com. She has turned my stories into a beautiful-looking book that wouldn't go amiss in Hogwarts Library – well, there's the matter of content, but in terms of looks the book deserves a place of honour.

There are even illustrations to all the stories! Do check it out, and at the bottom of the page there's a button for 'contact' if you've loved it enough to want to tell her so.

The link to the stories is: www. redhen-publications dot com / detective / html

Just take out the spaces.


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